


no love like yours

by puchuupoet



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Bucky Barnes Recovering, Clint Barton Feels, Developing Relationship, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Hawkeye - Freeform, Hurt Clint Barton, M/M, Nicknames, Not Beta Read, Painkillers, Protective Bucky Barnes, Sassy Bucky Barnes, Secrets, Swearing, Texting, Tiny Tony Stark, meta-ish, pet fish, slight crack, winter soldier - Freeform, winterhawk - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-07
Updated: 2019-10-07
Packaged: 2020-11-26 16:35:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20933333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puchuupoet/pseuds/puchuupoet
Summary: Bucky convinces an injured Clint to stay behind as everyone else goes out Avenging.Clint is not happy with said decision and, full of painkillers, decides to do something. Possibly about it, even, but there's something shiny distracting him.





	no love like yours

**Author's Note:**

  * For [breakaway71](https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakaway71/gifts).

_Fuck Buck._

_Fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em, fuck ‘em._

The words thrummed in Clint’s head, nicely matching up with the thumping around he was doing. The one nice thing about the tower was that it encouraged and amplified echoing noises. And Clint was making sure that he was making noise. Not like anyone was going to hear him, even though that was sort of a perk in itself. The doctors had told him to keep the leg still and elevated for at least the next 48 hours, if not several more days, and that was… three hours ago.

But no one was here to bitch at him, cause they all got called on a mission and this time, this fuckin’ time, Bucky had paused, tugged Clint’s arm, and gave him some sad looking eyes. “You’re hurt…” he had trailed off, and Clint had just gestured around at everyone else. Everyone was hurt. Hell, Tony was still leaking blood from one of the suit joints. 

“I can still drive and shoot with a boot on,” Clint had gotten annoyed, and then straight up angry when he realized that everyone else was averting their eyes or trying to slip away. They were all treating it as a goddamn couples fight, rather than teammates looking out for each other. 

“I know. And I want you to still be able to do that.” Bucky’s grasp on Clint’s arm had tightened. “Please, just this once.” Clint had finally nodded, and the look of relief on Bucky’s face was almost worth it. He pressed a quick kiss to Clint’s temple, managing to avoid the scraped up skin. 

“Iron Giant, get your ass moving!” Stark yelled back at them, everyone else having headed for the elevator.

Clint had offered Bucky a forced smile. “I’m holding you to that ‘only once’, you got it? And you fuckin’ owe me, Barnes.” 

Maybe he should feel bad about those parting words, he muses, what with all the shit Bucky and Steve went through together. There’s solid history full of reasons for Bucky to worry about the person next to him. But the painkillers are wearing off and Clint can’t punch shit in the gym right now, and Bucky’s not around to apologize to with a hard kiss and a handjob. So he’s been thumping in circles in the common area. 

But his leg’s really starting to bother him, the boot rubbing abrasions into skin, the joint swelling against the restraints, and it hits him exactly how tired he actually is. Fuckin’ Barnes, always gotta be right about things. His painkillers are still in a brown bag on the counter, and he washes them down with some water. Making his way to one of the couches, Clint props his foot up on the arm before pulling a blanket over him. He quickly finds something dumb on TV and before he knows it he’s dozing off.

Clint wakes up to the unnatural blue light of the tv and darkness outside the windows. Pulling his phone out, there’s a handful of notifications on the screen. 

_**bbarnes**: i’m sorry doll, just trying to get used to this again. forgot how scared a man can get when love and war mix together._

_**bbarnes**: lemme know how you’re doing, okay? even if you wanna get angry at me some more, i get it, i promise_

_**bbarnes**: clint, sweetheart, just let me know you’re alive and not bleeding out in the gym._

_**tashtash**: Clint. Respond to your boyfriend so that he will calm down and focus on the mission._

_**buckerfucker**: Sorry Buck, passed out on the couch. I’m alive and elevating the fucker._

_**buckerfucker**: Did you happen to change some settings in my phone, James?_

_**bbarnes**: sorry babe, gotta go kill things brb. i think we’ll be back tomorrow? love you!_

Fuckin’ Bucky. 

Giving Clint emotions and a dumbass nickname and making him wait until tomorrow before any retaliation can happen. _Sexy retaliation_, his mind supplies, and yeah brain, good job, but first things first. Actual sleep. On a real bed even.

He makes his way to Bucky’s floor automatically, the doors opening as if everything was normal. There’s a rush of warmth as he realizes Bucky’s given him access; it was something discussed but never finalized, or so he had thought. He hopes Jarvis can see his smile.

Everything’s already turned off, but Clint makes the rounds anyways. A mix of building supe motions and a zen path to bed, he appreciates the finality of the evening, of everything safe and secure till the morning. Or afternoon. Whenever waking up happens.

He feeds the betta in the kitchen, the little heated tank Bucky’s pride. It’s a gorgeous black and silver fish with trailing fins, appropriately named Sassy for its reaction to its reflection and fingers near the glass. When Clint had asked why, Bucky said it was short for Assassin, and Clint had just looked at him. “We’re kin,” Bucky had explained, gesturing between arm and fin. “Little fishy bro.”

Sassy’s pleased with the food, and Clint’s happy it was alive another day. Heading back through the living room, Clint visually checks the windows, eyes running over the rest of the room out of habit. 

_Huh._

There’s something weird, one of the cabinet doors ajar when it’s usually locked up tight, and Clint heads towards it. There’s a twist of regret about snooping, but clearing out potential enemies does take precedence. Bucky’ll understand. Besides, if Clint was allowed to go on the job, he wouldn’t even be here in this situation in the first place. 

Turning the lights on, Clint awkwardly crouches in front of the cabinet, the booted foot sticking out to the side. With a soft finger, he pulls the door the rest of the way open, and with a jolt of surprise he falls back on his ass. 

“What the actual fuck,” he whispers, eyes wide. 

Wide eyes look back at him, a mix of black dots, others with more natural looking ones, and some buttons, he thinks, on the knitted one in the back. Little eyes, on little figures, with his little goddamn face. There are others— Captain America, Dr. Strange, a ridiculously tiny Iron Man— and it’s that last one that confirms it’s Bucky’s collection. There’s two of Bucky even, one post-everything, with the arm and more civilian clothes. And then one in battle gear, that black leather Clint can’t help but appreciate, a fierce look painted on the face. But then there’s Hawkeye. Hawkeyes. A herd of them. 

Clint doesn’t even remember some of these costumes himself, and he’s pretty sure a couple figures are more jacked than he’s ever been. But the cabinet is full of these figures, and he’s got at least one full shelf to himself. Which is adorable and making his heart ache in a funny way, but also. Bucky.

When he leans over, he can see a small silver key in the built-in lock, a small clip attached. Clint knows this clip, has seen it often on Bucky’s dresser, sharing a small dish with coins and scraps and the odd bullet casing. Never obvious, but always accessible. 

Staring at the collection in front of him, Clint decides. He’ll lock it up, put the key away, and finish getting ready for bed. It’s late, he’s gone through all the ups and downs of pain _numerous_ times today, and his everything hurts. He’s ready to hunker down under the ridiculously soft blankets Bucky favors and sleep till he can’t sleep anymore. 

The jet rumbles against some turbulence, and the soft shaking wakes Bucky up. He’s aching with exhaustion, his damaged gear hanging heavy on his shoulders. He’s still not fully sure what they had just fought, some mix of robotics and organic substance that had Tony’s eyes lit up with glee. Other things had lit up as well, mainly their shiny metal bodies, and it brings a smile to Bucky’s face. Sometimes you just need a solid fight against bad guys to center your brain. 

He misses Clint though, the firm press of their bodies against each other, sitting on a too small bench on purpose, because the only way to be supported is by each other. But he also can’t rid himself of the sounds from earlier, the meaty tear as Clint had down, the way his foot bent in a way that God did not intend for it to bend. And then the other goddamn crack as the dumbass tried to pull himself up and walk himself to safety, only for his shin to hit a sharp edge of concrete. 

Clint’s just lucky Bucky didn’t handcuff him to the bed till he healed, and that’s only because they haven’t had that talk yet. 

His phone vibrates against his thigh, and Bucky pulls it out of the pocket. 

_ **buckerfucker has sent you a message (2) + photo** _

Intrigued, Bucky swipes the message open, already prepared to get torn into. He deserves it, even though not fully, and yeah, maybe they should work on their communication skills a bit more. 

_**buckerfucker**: hey babe, sorry about earlier, you were right about staying here being better for me. i’m in your bed so don’t squash me when you get back. stay safe bookybeer_

Bucky smiles, can hear it in Clint’s voice, the teasing tone, that soft lilt that no one else seems to notice. 

_**buckerfucker**: shit yeah, forgot something. totally have plans for when you get home, sent you some inspiration ;) _

Bucky’s ninety-nine percent sure some form of dick pic is gonna follow, cause they might’ve been doing that before they actually started dating. (“No one believes you!” Natasha had told them when she found out, when they had said everyone else was doing it. She may have had a point, but Bucky has no regrets.)

He keeps scrolling, the picture a mix of dark brown and… his carpet? When he pulls up the rest of it, he can’t stop the panicked choke that bubbles out of him. Thor smacks him on the back, and thankfully Bucky can breathe again, but he hides his phone against his chest. No one else is going to see this picture. No one was ever supposed to see _any_ of that. 

Bucky glances back down, able to sort of smirk even, now that he’s prepared for what he’s looking at. It’s a picture of two of his collectible figures, Hawkeye and the Winter Soldier, balanced in Clint’s hand. The way he’s holding them has them face to face, plastic pressed to plastic, as close as their mouths can get. 

There’s text at the bottom of the photo, bright purple because of course. 

_Is this a kissing book?_

Bucky can’t help the soft whimper that comes out, and he’d be embarrassed if anyone actually heard it. He hopes Clint’s asleep, finally resting, but Bucky needs to respond now. 

_**bbarnes**: yeah darling, it is_

Less than a minute later, he gets a response:

_**buckerfucker**: good <3_  
_**buckerfucker**: peach peach eggplant eggplant sunglasses_


End file.
